2. Was Julian really at the beach the whole time this was happening?
3. How many surveillance cameras are at Dover Beach? And where are they located?
4. Is it a coincidence that Julian happened to walk by a working surveillance camera on Sunday and by an area that didn’t have any camera at all on Saturday?
5. Is Julian innocent?
6. Did Mrs. Roman murder her husband and then kill herself?
7. Did this crime have any other suspects? And, if so, who were they?
I gaze toward the window, unable to stop obsessing over the timing of it all—Mr. Roman’s murder occurring on the same day as his wife’s alleged suicide…Why weren’t investigators able to figure out the order of their deaths?
I do a quick Google search with the words “autopsy” and “time of death estimation.” There are numerous sites devoted to crime-scene forensics. I click on one of them. It seems there are several factors involved in determining the time of death, including body temperature, rigor mortis, and the cessation of organs.
But what about when a body is immersed in water? According to Forensic Fred, self-proclaimed CSI fanatic, if the tub water is warm it might quicken the cessation of organ function while also speeding up rigor mortis. On the flip side, if the temperature’s cold, those same reactions might be slowed down. I’m assuming the water in the tub was warm—at least initially, until the water in the heater emptied.
But what if it wasn’t?
I get up and pace back and forth, the questions bopping around inside my brain like an annoying pinball game. I really need to sleep. I have a history test tomorrow.
The blare of fire trucks nearby fills the loud silence. I wonder if Julian hears it too. I look toward the window of the barn, willing to wager a bet, desperate to ask him the one obvious question that’s been raging inside my brain. How else will I ever be able to get any sleep?
Tuesday, October 20
Morning
I woke up, all out of breath, to the screeching of sirens. It was dark out. Late night? Early morning?
I got up and stumbled across the barn, accidentally bumping into the mower, wishing I had a flashlight. I went to peek out the window and spotted Day.
She was standing in front of her bedroom window, staring in my direction. The lights were on in her room. I backed away and placed my hand over my chest, able to feel the pulsating beat.
What the hell am I doing? Why the hell am I staying? I mean, yes, I still have unfinished business, but why aren’t I doing it?
Day got up and swung open the door to her room. The light downstairs flicked on. She was in the kitchen, grabbing something from behind the door. The porch light went on. The back door opened.
Standing on the porch, she clicked on her flashlight. I moved to the door, wrapped my fingers around the handle, and held my breath, fearing she was coming to see me, half-hoping she was coming to see me.
There was a light rap on the door. I edged it open.
Day was there. And I immediately got that feeling: a fluttering in my stomach, a tightening in my chest like I suddenly couldn’t breathe. I took a mental step back, trying to get a grip, wondering how the hell this happened. It had to change. I needed to go.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she said. “Your case has been spinning around inside my head—”
“And?”
“And are you really, truly innocent?”
I closed my eyes, flashing back to being five years old, sitting on the floor of the living room—in my fuzzy red pajamas, on the dark blue rug—playing with my Matchbox cars while my father yelled at my mother in the kitchen.
“Did you do it on purpose?” he snapped at her. “Was the accident part of some scheme to get me back for coming home late? Did you even bother to check the kids’ seat belts?”
Mom sunk down against the cabinets and cried like I’d never heard before—a deep-throated wail, like nothing that sounded human.
“Julian?” There was a concerned look on Day’s face: parted lips, scrunched brow.
What was the question?
“Did you do it?” she asked; the very same words my father used.
I want to tell her I did. I want to make her hate me. “That’s the hard part,” I said, instead, “because who would ever answer yes to a crime like that? And yet, at the same time, you don’t even know me. You have no real reason to believe me if I answer no.”
“What if I told you that I don’t care if the answer’s no.”
“Then who’d be lying?”
“Are you guilty?” she asked, for the third time.
I clenched my teeth, still able to picture my mom, the last time I saw her, lying in the bathtub with a dead stare in her eyes. “No.” I shook my head.
She twitched from the cold, wrapping the coat tightly around her. “I’m trusting that’s the truth.”
“And I’m trusting you won’t turn me in.”
If only that made us even.
After school the following day, Tori picks up Jeannie and me, having scored her mom’s car for the week.
“Is your mom feeling extra charitable or something?” Jeannie asks, peeling an ice-cream wrapper off the seat.
“No, she’s just feeling extra guilty.”
“Guilty for…” I open the window a crack. The interior smells like fuzzy cheese.
“Sucking up my life, basically.” Tori puts the car in drive and pulls out of the parking lot, but instead of turning left toward home, she merges right, slamming on the accelerator.
Jeannie flips the sun visor down to gawk at me in the mirror. Her expression—bulging eyes, raised brows—matches my thoughts exactly.
“You need to slow down,” I insist.
Tori blows out a raspberry, denoting her disagreement, but thankfully she eases up on the accelerator, so that Jeannie and I can breathe. “Wouldn’t it be great if we could Wite-Out entire chunks of our life?” she asks. “Like, if the liquid inside that tiny white wonder bottle could erase all of our screwups and annoyances?”
“Would that include facial protrusions?” Jeannie lifts her glasses to run her finger over the nonexistent bump on her nose.
I edge forward in my seat, placing my hand on Tori’s headrest. “What would you Wite-Out?”
“Only the fact that my mother is preggers.”
Jeannie’s mouth gapes open. “You’re joking.”
“No joke. Sixteen weeks. And here I thought Mom’s recent rolls were the product of too many Mr. Goodbars.”
“But instead they’re the product of your dad’s good bar?” Jeannie asks.
An image of Tori’s dad immediately pops into my mind: beer belly, suspenders, tiny round glasses. He’s basically a darker-haired version of Santa Claus; even Tori calls him that.
“Okay, um, ew,” Jeannie says, once again reading my mind. “Are you sure she’s pregnant and not just bloated?”
“Definitely sure. I found the pee stick in the garbage. Two lines, unmistakable.”
“And this sucks up your life, because…?” Jeannie asks.
“Because Santa isn’t the father.”
“Pull over,” Jeannie demands.
Tori does as told, coming to a full stop at the side of the road—ironically, outside Millie’s Maternity. She puts the car in park and rests her head against the steering wheel. “Do you guys remember a few weeks ago, when I went home during C-Block to get my history paper? I saw them. That is, I walked in on them…together.”
“Ew,” Jeannie repeats.
“Wait, you saw who?” I ask.
“My mother and Hugo the electrician. Evidently he’d been coming over to screw more than just her bulbs.” Tori lifts her head from the wheel. “It’s like a cheesy Lifetime movie, except for the fact that I have no idea how this ends. She’s keeping the baby, by the way, even though she and the baby-daddy have broken up.”
“Does your dad know?” I ask.
She nods. “He knows everything—about the pregnancy and the fact
that the baby isn’t his.”
“And?” I persist.
“And how does he feel about the fact that my mom was playing hide the Mr. Goodbar with the man who lights up her life—literally?” Tori asks.
“Okay,” I say.
“Miraculously, he’s already forgiven her. And P.S., he’s excited about the baby. But you know Santa. He’s overly generous, always merry to trim her tree and jingle her bell.”
“Okay, I’m seriously going to yack.” Jeannie rolls down her window.
“Can we go get double-fudge lattes now?” Tori asks.
“We can get anything you want,” Jeannie says.
“But only if you let me pay,” I insist, remembering Dad’s money in my wallet.
Tori gives us the thumbs-up and begins on the road again. We pass through the cities of Marshton and Wallington, finally crossing into Decker, Julian’s hometown.
I already know where we’re headed. Tori’s favorite coffee shop is a place called the Pissy Ragdoll. Its logo is a Raggedy Ann–looking doll giving the middle finger.
We pull up in front and go inside. The place is frequented by an eclectic mix of hipsters, drama rats, emos, and artsy types. There’s a huge bulletin board that takes up the wall by the pickup counter. It’s littered with postcards, posters, job ads, and moody quotes. We order our drinks and gravitate to the board, per usual. Someone’s posted a bunch of illustrations—ink drawings of famous couples (John Lennon and Yoko Ono, Luke Skywalker and Princess Leia, Prince William and Princess Kate).
“Ken and Barbie,” Tori cheers, looking somewhat like a Barbie doll herself (or at least the superhero version of one), complete with a hot-pink bodysuit that matches her hair, white ankle boots, and shimmery gold cuff bracelets. “I wish I had my own Ken right about now.”
Jeannie rolls her eyes. “You need a Ken like I need a monkey on my head.”
“Actually, a monkey could come in handy to carry all of our drinks.” Tori turns on her heel to get her Whiny Ragdoll but instead of coming back to join us, she heads in the direction of the gaggle of boys in the corner.
“So much for girl bonding,” Jeannie says.
“We can bond,” I offer.
“Over French vocab, I hope. Quiz tomorrow, remember?”
“Right.” I cringe, reminded of the history test I took today. Though, on barely three hours of sleep, it actually wasn’t as terrible as I thought it’d be.
While Jeannie grabs her Funkin’ Ragdoll (a mint-mocha latte), I move to the far end of the bulletin board, noticing a group of kids swarming a poster.
A tall girl nods to it. “I’m surprised they’re using this photo. I mean, isn’t that his yearbook picture? Shouldn’t they be using a mug shot rather than a head shot?”
“Maybe that’s the whole point,” another girl says; she’s dressed in soccer gear. “To nab our attention. Like, who’s that hottie convict?” She laughs.
I peek between them. A picture of Julian’s face sits beneath the word WANTED, sending a shockwave through my body.
“I can’t believe he’s still missing,” Tall Girl says.
“I can,” a boy pipes up; his hair is as red as the Pissy Ragdoll’s. “The cops in this town are a joke. And the guards at the juvie? Useless as decaf. Isn’t this, like, the third breakout this year?”
Julian looks so different in the poster. His face is fuller. His hair’s much shorter. His eyes appear less tired. But still I’m able to recognize his smile: the curious grin that curls up the side of his face.
“I actually think it’s the fourth breakout,” Tall Girl says. “At least that’s what my dad told me.”
“I’m glad Julian got out,” Soccer Girl says. “I mean, he never really talked much—at least not in my bio class—but he always did his work and stuff.”
“He was always writing in his notebook,” the red-haired boy says. “Probably plotting out his crime.”
“I’ll bet he was really sweet,” Soccer Girl says.
“Sweet for an ax murderer maybe.” A girl with jet-black curlicues uses a plastic knife as a makeshift ax to chop through the air. “I heard he used his bare hands.”
“His father suffered a blunt-force trauma to the head,” a guy with a spiked faux-hawk says.
“Are you suddenly the authority on Julian’s case?” Curlicue goes to take a sip of her large iced coffee, but the straw misses her mouth and shoots up her nostril.
“Wait, didn’t Mrs. Roman have some secret ex-lover?” Soccer Girl makes her voice go sexy-sultry.
“Holy shit,” Faux-hawk says, checking his watch. “I have to go.”
“So do I.” Soccer Girl looks up at the clock. “My shift starts in ten minutes, and I still have to change.” She pulls a hat from her bag. The café’s pissy ragdoll sits on the visor, giving me the finger.
The group quickly disperses, as if I suddenly smell like the inside of Tori’s car.
“I guess you know how to clear out a room,” Jeannie says, standing by my side now. She hands me my drink. “Who’s the guy?”
At first I assume she’s talking about Faux-hawk, but then she moves closer to the poster of Julian.
“He looks so familiar,” she says. “Do we know him?”
“That’s the guy,” I tell her. “Julian Roman.”
She angles closer to get a better look. “The bike-path-stalking-convenience-store-daddy-murderer? I totally recognize him from the news.”
“Alleged daddy-murderer,” I say, correcting her.
“Where’s Tori, by the way?”
“There.” I nod to the cushy chairs in the corner of the café. Tori’s sitting with a couple of Jimi Hendrix look-alikes. “I guess somebody’s feeling better.”
“I guess somebody wants a distraction.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” I say, suddenly eager for a distraction too. “So, how about that French vocab?”
“Right this way, mon amie.” Jeannie taps her Funkin’ Ragdoll against my Dolly Latte and then leads me to her table.
Before we head back to town, I ask Tori if we can make a pit stop at Dover Beach.
“Because you’re looking to freeze your ass off?” She nods to the temperature gauge on the dashboard. “It’s forty-seven degrees.”
“More like because I want to check out the surveillance cameras.”
“Planning something shady?” She tsk-tsks. “If so, I’d pick something a little less conspicuous than a beach.”
“Like a library reference room or something?” Jeannie laughs.
“It’s sort of a long story,” I tell them.
“And does the premise have anything to do with a certain juvenile-detention-center escapee?” Jeannie peeks at me in the visor mirror.
“Am I that transparent?”
“Like window glass.” She yawns.
“It was those kids,” I tell her. “In the coffee shop. They were talking about Julian’s case. His alibi was a girl who originally said she saw him at Dover Beach on Saturday, but the surveillance cameras only peg him there on Sunday.”
“I seriously don’t even understand why you care,” Jeannie says.
“Because I’m interested in his case,” I remind her. Why is the idea of that such a mystery to people? “I want to make sure that his arrest was justified.”
“And how do you propose to do that? Interview key players? Ask to see the surveillance tape? Take a crash course in forensics?” Jeannie snickers. “Who has that kind of time, not to mention the resources?”
“We’re here,” Tori declares, pulling the plug on our conversation.
The car rocks from side to side as we drive onto the gravel lot. Things look vacant without the summer traffic. Sully’s Snack Bar is closed. All of the picnic tables have been put away.
“I’ll just be a second.” I grab my camera from my bag and get out. The snack bar’s ordering and pickup windows are boarded up for the season. A surveillance camera points down at them from the corner of the building. I take a snapshot of it, re
membering how Julian mentioned bumping into Ariana by the showers.
I move around the corner. The showers are in open view, on a platform, under a wide overhang. There’s no surveillance camera anywhere, but then why would there be? Who’d shower if they knew they were being videotaped?
I take photos of the shower area anyway, trying to picture what the scene looked like: Julian had just arrived after mowing his neighbor’s lawn. It was around noon. He said he parked his car on the right, by the entrance, and then walked on this side of the building, which makes perfect sense. He wouldn’t have walked around to the other side. This route would’ve been more direct.
There’s another surveillance camera in the corner of the building, but it’s pointed at the deck area, where people eat. I take a photo of it, figuring it must’ve been the camera that caught Julian on Sunday, when he parked on the opposite side of the lot.
I take photos of the beach, as well as the rocks to the far right, where Julian said he liked to sit. The rocks form a mountain of sorts—about as tall as a one-story house. There are also a few flat slabs, and a couple of alcoves where one could find shade. But there are no cameras out that way.
A flagpole sits a few yards from the deck. There’s a surveillance camera attached to it. More cameras point down from poles along the boardwalk, to the left. I take photos of all of them, especially the one in the far corner of the parking lot. According to Julian, that’s the camera that was broken. But why would that even have mattered for him if he’d parked by the entrance like he said on Saturday? And if the camera by the deck caught him on Sunday…
I head back to the car, my mind whirling with questions.
“You’re seriously researching this case, aren’t you?” Jeannie turns in her seat to gawk at me.
“Um, were you not conscious for the last twenty minutes?” Tori asks her. “I’d say the answer’s a big fat yes.”
“It is a big fat yes,” I admit.
“Because you really think the police screwed up?”
“What I think is that the published details don’t add up, and so I’d like to find more facts. If it ends up being a waste of my time, so be it—at least I’ll know.”
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